Of All Things Evil
by stakemenow
Summary: What happen when you mix the boys up in something that just might be too big for them... when the person that needs their help is already dead, and is their prime suspect.
1. The Game

Disclaimer: Don't own them!

"There're only so many things you can expect. In this world you can always expect the unexpected." She whispered into his ear. She leaned back and smiled. It was a sweet smile on a pretty face. Soft yet chaotic waves of brown hair fell just past her shoulders and into her face. She reached up with her hand and gently swept the hair away from her deep blue eyes. Her face was smooth with high cheekbones that gave her an air of power that she seemed not to know about. The corner of her small pink mouth twitched at a joke he made. A pretty girl, but a young one. She was slender, in a peasant skirt and a snug tee. But you could see the small reminders of baby fat on her face. She placed her hand on the curve of her hip. She was too young for him, too young for that place, but there she was. No one questioned her because she'd learned how to blend in. For all she looked the part of innocent, in her eyes you could see the contradiction. The contradiction that fit in with her ability to hide when needed, and at all the things she did just right to keep his interest. By noticing he liked her façade of purity and the ignorance she sent off herself glowing at will.

Even if she hadn't been young, he wouldn't have had a girl like her. She was too good for him. But she was a predator by nature, or so they say, and she needed prey. All hunters need something to hunt. He was drunk, and not as charming as he thought he was. He hadn't shaven in weeks, his beady eyes peered at her greedily through his shaggy, greasy blonde hair. His grubby hands pawed at her. Any self-respecting person would have been appalled. But people at places like that just let it all blend into the background. Why deal with someone else's issues when you have your own boatload to carry around? His hands found their way to her ass, causing a sloppy grin to spread over his face. She swatted his hands away and blushed modestly. He smiled wider. She leaned over and whispered something in his ear. He laughed. He said something back to her, but in a place like that you can't hear much of anything three feet away from you. That was when she got up out of her seat and walked right out the door. A smile played on her face when she looked back and became more suspicious as she turned away. He watched her go hungrily. A fat redhead slapped the bill down on the table, along with his credit card. He signed it. Then Patrick Stoner left through the same doors she had.

He didn't get far before he smelled her perfume, light and feminine. "Looking for me?" she asked. He turned to her wide blue eyes. Deep, pure, afraid, just the way he liked them. "Didn't believe you when you told me." He breathed just as thickly as he spoke. He stepped closer to her so that her back was against the cold brick wall. She bit her lip, her eyes telling everything. The game was already played, no need for any extra effort on her part. She smirked, letting the pout drop. "Better believe it baby." He chuckled. He liked this, she had a saucy side, just as well. He ran his hand down her hair and cupped her face with it. "Don't be afraid, honey-girl. I'll be nice." He mocked her with his voice. She could play games, and so could he. She grinned at him wickedly, more of her true self shining through. "You don't gotta." She bit her lip again and he growled. His lips crashed down on her. The true game had just begun.

He ran his meaty hands up and down her back, along her sides, over her breasts, everywhere he could reach. He cupped her ass and brought her to him. He grunted and groaned as her hands gripped his neck, his arms, his hips. He hiked up her skirt and fumbled with his belt. She let him. He grunted and panted as he moved against her, under the folds of her skirt. He kissed her harshly and pressed her back against the wall. Her arms hung gently from his shoulders and her legs dangled uselessly from his hips as he squirmed and pushed and finally fell still with a grunt. His grimy, sweaty hands moved out from under her skirt, letting her slid down the wall to her feet. She straightened and twisted her skirt until it was back in place. She pulled her tee back down, trying to cover all of the places he'd touched, trying to hide that dirty feeling. He leaned back, a cigarette balanced on his lips. He watched her pull herself back together. He threw the cigarette onto the ground after one last drag. He dug in his pocket and pulled out some money. He counted it out and handed it to her. She snatched it and went through it herself. Halfway through she dropped it on the ground. He swore and helped her pick it up. He felt bad for the kid. What the hell had driven her to this? He smiled when her eyes met his. She hesitated, but returned it. He stood. "Look, kid. You need some help, just talk to the lady that owns that bar. I can give you a hand, if you need it." Her face hardened but she nodded. He smiled at her again and went on his way. She turned the other way, hating herself for what she was, for what she did, for what she was going to do.

Patrick Stoner died that night. The police say he died in an alley with one shot to the head. A waitress at Midnight bar reported having seen him in the company of a young girl. But no one knew who she was, or where she went. They saw her leave the bar, but after that there was nothing. It was as if she just disappeared. No one was ever brought in as a suspect.


	2. What is it?

A worn out looking blonde with bangs and bags under her eyes carried a tray around the bar. She carried it at her hip, the beer sloshing over the rim of the mug and onto the faded green apron covering her faded, torn jeans. She stopped at a table and slammed down two of the mugs. The beer splashed onto Sammy's hand. He shook it off. He made a face at the mug before gulping down half of it at once.

"That's disgusting." Dean grimaced at a heavy biker chick. Sammy looked at her over his shoulder. "Maybe she enjoys moonlit walks on the beach and… mooing through the pastures." Dean's face lit up. "Did you just make a joke?" Sammy winced. "No!" Dean smiled. "Yes, you did. Granted a bad one, but still… improvement." Sammy shook his head. "No."

Dean drummed his fingers on the table, scanning the bar. "What the hell are we doing in this town?" Sammy sighed at his brother and rolled his eyes. "I told you, there's a possibility something supernatural killed that guy they found in the alley." Dean frowned. "A gunshot to the head is what killed the guy. What the hell are we doing here, Sam?" Sam sighed, "Because, there's almost no chance I'm wrong with this and it's a closed case, which means no cops sniffing around." Dean shook his head. "Not good enough, Sammy. As far as my count, there's only one body and that doesn't exactly classify this as demonic or spiritual, or whatever the hell else you're trying to pull into this. People kill people too, Sammy." Dean breathed heavily, his nostrils flaring. "I know, but this wasn't human." Dean gave an exasperated cry. "Why not, Sam?"

Sam looked around them. He pointed to their blonde waitress. "You see her?" Dean nodded. "She's alone in this world, save one person." Dean sighed again, "Who?" Sammy pointed to another, paler looking blonde. "Her. Two minutes ago she gave her some aspirin, even though those guys," he gestured to a college group, "dumped their drinks on her." Dean blinked blankly. "Get to the point already." Sam shifted, leaning to the table. "People leave trails, traces. They have connections to everyone and everything around them. There's always some link. This case?" he tapped the article on the table, "There's no DNA, no GPR, and best of all? No bullet. It sure as hell went in, but it never came out. They searched the guy's brain, it wasn't in there." Dean thought for a second. "Okay, you've got a point there." Sam took another sip of his beer. "Thank you." Dean cleared his throat. "So, where to from here?" Sam raised his eyebrow and looked at the weary blonde waitress. Dean rolled his eyes and groaned, "Fine!" He stood, wiping his hands on his faded jeans. He smiled and nodded at a glaring group of bikers as he passed their table.

"Excuse me, ma'm." Dean tapped the blonde on the shoulder. She turned and looked up at him, shaking her blonde bangs out of her brown eyes. "Yes… can I help you sir?" Dean pulled out a PI badge. "I was wondering what you could tell me about a Mr. Patrick Stoner." She looked at him, sighed, and rubbed her face. "Who?" Dean watched her cautiously. "Patrick Stoner. He was found around the corner three days ago. Gunshot to the head. He was reported being seen here, talking to a young girl before he was killed." The girl's eyes flickered with something. "I'm sorry, I wasn't here that night. I was sick." Dean looked around and sighed. "Ok, well… uh, if you think of anything, anyone I could talk to, Miss…"

"Midnight, Mary-Lynn Midnight. And there is someone you could talk to. I'm not sure if she'll be much help. My sister, Frankie Jane, that blonde over there. She was here that night. She might be able to help you." Dean followed her finger to the harsher looking, paler blonde. He turned back to Mary-Lynn. "Thanks, I'll be in touch."

Dean wormed his way over to Frankie Jane. "Frankie Jane Midnight?" Her head snapped up, green eyes narrowed at him. "Yeah? What the fuck do you want?" Dean was taken slightly aback. "Well… uh, I was talking to your sister and…" The woman's arms crossed defensively and she stepped towards him. "What does this have to do with Mary-Lynn? If you hurt her." Her voice left the threat open ended but clear. Dean backed away. "Hey, I was just asking a few questions. Patrick Stoner was seen here with a young girl, I was hoping for some information. She pointed me to you." He held out his ID to her. She looked at it, then at him. "What do you want to know?" She tossed it onto the table. Dean grinned. "Everything you know." She picked her tray back up and strutted away, wiping her left hand on her apron. "Later."

Dean sat back down at the table. Sammy watched Frankie Jane talking to a drunk man in the corner. "Anything?" Dean groaned. "Don't even ask. She said she'd talk later. I guess she's too busy to honor her civic duty." Sammy raised his eyebrow. "Yeah, because we're really the people to talk to about 'civic duty.'" Dean groaned and rolled his eyes, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh. "What the hell are we gonna do?"


	3. The Setup

Dean slammed the car door shut. "So, how exactly is she going to find us when we just found out where we're staying?" Sammy asked. Dean sighed. "There's only one hotel in this stinking town, I think she'll manage."

They rang the bell sitting on the desk in the lobby. A short, balding man in his mid-forties came in through a stairway in the back. "Can I help you folks?" Dean smiled politely. "Like a room." He handed him a credit card. The man raised an eyebrow. Dean's smile widened. "Families, got no say in what you get stuck with." The man nodded sympathetically. "I hear you. Gea Milford isn't the best name to get stuck with either." Dean coughed back a laugh.

A kid ran down the stairs. About sixteen years old, he shook long black hair out of his face. "Hey Dad, I'm going out." Gea flushed. "Well, um, your mother, did she…?" The kid rolled his eyes and slammed the door on his way out. Gea winced and laughed nervously. "Kids, what's the world to do? Folks 'round here call me Mil. Give a holler if you need anything." He smiled and handed them the room key.

Dean opened the door to Frankie Jane. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of worn black jeans. "What do you want?" she asked him, "And make it quick." She pushed past him and into the room. Dean gave her a look. "Hi, how are you? Good? Yes, of course you can come it!" She snorted. "Milly would've let me in if I asked." Sam came out of the bathroom drying his hair, a towel wrapped around his waist. "You mean Mil?" She looked at him, "No. Milly's his wife." She looked around the room. She threw her bag onto one of the beds and lay on it. "So, I repeat, what do you want?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Patrick Stoner. He died three days ago. The last time anyone saw him was at your bar." She rolled her eyes. "Okay, first off? It's not my bar, I work there. And second… so what? Lots of people go to the bar, and he's the only one dead." Dean cleared his throat again. She was starting to get on his nerves. The veins in his neck started straining. Sam looked at them, sensing the hostility. "I'm going to… go put on some clothes."

"Can you just tell me what you remember?" Dean asked. The past few weeks had been long and he was exhausted. Frankie Jane frowned. "We don't usually let kids into the place. They're too young to drink and tend to draw trouble. I don't remember seeing her come in, but we were busy that night. I did see her at the table, though. At first look you would've thought what a young thing like that was doing with a guy like him. You know the type of guy. Second glance gave you a lot more to go on. A lot more that makes sense now. She was wearing a white peasant skirt and a tight tee, not exactly a lot to go on. She was pretty though. Too pretty for him, if you catch my drift. The girl couldn't have been older than seventeen… but the second look told me all I ever want to know about her. Everything was too perfect a setup for him. Until you settled in on her eyes. You could see it clear as day in her eyes." Dean's breath caught. "See what?" Frankie Jane shivered. "You understand me, I've worked in that bar a long time. I've seen a lot of people come and go. Seen a bunch of ugly businesses being dealt with. Hell, I had to clean up most of it. That girl was one of the most dangerous predators I've ever seen. If looks could kill you'd be talking to a ghost right now. You can never know what it is that ruins people that way, and you hate seeing it in someone so young. Hell, I was her age six years ago, and it still scares me. But I can tell you this. You find that girl, you find who it is that murdered that guy."

Dean blinked, "Isn't it a bit hasty, calling her a killer? You willing to make a statement of it?" Frankie Jane's jaw tightened. "I'd bet my life and my sister's on it." She stood and opened the door. "If you need anything else, Mil can get to me. I'd like to know what you find out." Dean shifted. "You could just give us your number." Frankie Jane smiled. "Mil knows how to find me."

She watched the blonde woman from the bar leaving. She knew what she'd told them. She knew that they were looking for her. She knew that the boys knew more than they should. But she also knew that they had no idea what they were dealing with.

She slipped in. It was too easy. They hadn't bothered to take precautions. She looked at them as they rested peacefully. She picked up the stationary pad on the night stand. She wrote her message, resisting the urge to laugh. Let them try to stop it. You can't change the way things are. Let them try to make it all right. No one would ever be able to do it again. The special one moved. She slunk back into the shadows as he woke.

Sammy's throat was burning. He stumbled into the bathroom, chugging down tap water. His throat relieved, he turned on a light. He straightened his pillow and slipped back into his bed. He reached for the light and paused. He reached for the pad, and read its message.

'You're not ready for this. It's going to beat you. You'll never find me. There's only so much you can expect. Get ready. This is going to be a hell of a fight.'

He heard a creak at the window and looked up. He caught the glimpse of a girl's face. She smiled, then she was gone.


	4. How to Fuck Up Toast

Disclaimer: don't own them

Sam sat across from his brother. There was only one diner in town, and if the food was horrible, the coffee was worse. Even the toast was bad. How does someone mess up toast, for Christ's sake? All you have to do is put it in a frickin' toaster. It's easy. Take out of bag, drop in slot, push down lever, take out when lever pops up. How complicated is that? Not very. And still, half the population messes it up. That's what we do with our freedom… we learn how to fuck up toast.

Dean made a face and dropped his food back to the plate. He thought he'd ordered pancakes… but he couldn't even tell if what was in front him was food. He sighed. "So, you think that chick's involved?" Sam swallowed his ruined bite of toast and nodded.

Sam swallowed again, trying to get rid of that burning feeling without actually taking a sip of the coffee in front of him. Somehow, he knew that that would only make it worse. "I don't know if she's a spirit, or human, or what else. I don't know how she's involved in this, but I'd bet my life that she knows something about what's going on."

Dean opened his arms. "So what do you want me to do about it? We can't just go looking after a girl you barely caught a glimpse of in a town full of people with no faces, Sammy. And honestly, I don't think people would help us if they could. If you haven't noticed, small towns like this don't take well to strangers."

Sam sighed. "Alright, but it can't hurt to ask. Sooner or later we'll have to bring her up, so why not start now? I've been thinking about what Frankie Jane said last night, about that girl who was last seen with Stoner. We need a solid description of her. That way, we can get the word out and keep get a heads up if someone sees her."

Dean decided to let it go. "Fine, then you go ask her. I'm taking an asprin and getting some sleep."

* * *

cringe rather embarrassingly short... but i'll try to get the next part up. i started this before season three, so now i'm trying to figure out how to make it make sense with the season three finale and all that jazz... i've got a concept, but i have too think about it and 2:46 in the morning is a little too late for my brain to figure it out. lol. but anyways... it should all work out... tell me what you think!!

stakemenow


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